The four of us follow her out of Bear quarter and back into Deer. My eyes catch on every eclipseguard, feeling half sorry for how much the High Witches rely on them. Unless…unless they have some other way I don’t know about to defend from the valkerax. A spell, maybe? But the witches of old didn’t even have spells like that. They had to join with the humans and make Old Vetris to survive, make the entire Bone Tree to survive. So why are the High Witches now so confident in their ability to drive the valkerax off?

“Lucien.” Fione draws even with him. “There has to be—”

Lucien’s eyes flicker to Nightsinger’s back, her swaying mane of hair, and he cuts the archduchess off. “In a moment.”

It’s a Vetrisian noble court message—subtle, all in the eyes. He obviously doesn’t trust Nightsinger. Fione has the same idea as me, maybe, but we can’t talk about it with my old witch around. And that stings more than I thought it would.

The sun sets much later up here—or rather, with how high up we are, the sun takes a lot longer to dip below the horizon. We spiral up the spiral ramps of the residential buildings, catching whiffs of herbs and roasting potatoes and fish. Dinner. Dinner smells, like any dinner smells in Vetris. Through little windows above us, witch families tuck their children into bed, pulling wood-slat blinds shut for the night, sweeping away the day’s leaves from their doorsteps. Some of them wave at Nightsinger, and she smiles and nods back. The stares are still a thing—always aimed at Lucien, like he glows or displays something different only other witches can see. Or maybe an outsider witch is that much of a rare curiosity.

Nightsinger finally stops in front of an empty apartment on the incline, pointing to the medallion in Lucien’s hand.

“The sigil will allow you entry past the door. There are extra linens, and the woodbin refills automatically when it gets low. Just be careful to extinguish your witchfire before you leave.”

“All right.” Lucien nods. “Thank you.”

“I’m sorry, Black Rose.” She smiles at him, then me. “And to you, Zera. I’m sorry we couldn’t help you more.”

We. Her and the High Witches, together. Lucien wordlessly waves the sigil over the door and walks in, Fione and Malachite following after him. Nightsinger’s rueful smile widens at me.

“I suppose you don’t want to hug me now, knowing what I am.”

“Is it—” I swallow. “Does the skinreading always happen when you touch someone?”

“No. I’ve lived with it long enough—and there are teachers, here. I learned to control it. It’s considered proper manners, after all, even among witches, to refrain from invading private memories.”

“Yeah,” I laugh a little. “Right.”